In 1969, I had just turned 18, living the life of a suburban teenager, becoming a man, headed for college in the fall to my father’s alma mater UCLA Berkeley, where I was to study medicine,
become a doctor, return home to join my father’s burgeoning medical practice, find the girl of my dreams, marry, settle down, and have four or five children.
I knew I had to escape and start anew.
All of my life I’d felt stifled, from the formal parties my parents gave, the lavish soirees they dressed up for and spent all hours of the night celebrating with their society friends, being their
‘golden child’, never receiving less than an ‘A’ in school, riding horses, becoming a member of the local glee club, where I would singsong my way through arias by Caruso, always remain clean cut,
clean shaven, everything pressed, and always ignore ‘peer pressure’ from the hippies, who smoked, in my mother’s pinched, tight voice, ‘that terrible drug called marijuana’, and to emphasize her
point, she’d whisper the last word, as if it were a curse word. I’d envied the young people that passed by me each day on the streets of the small village I inhabited, men in caftans, with long flowing
hair, shaggy beards, holding tambourines, women in muu muus, waist length hair, smelling of patchouli, a halo of flowers encircling their head. The disgusted looks of the townspeople, all starched and
sour faced, as if they’ve eaten a ton of lemons only heightened my amusement. I wanted to experience this part of the world, far away from the clean cut, white bread world I had inhabited for
18 years. One night I packed up a duffel bag and snuck out, with little more than $1000 in my pocket, and my father’s American Express (it went against the grain, I know, but just in case I needed
a backup plan) and headed towards San Francisco, the city where Jackson Airplane headed at the Fillmore, the Haight Asbury was a more famous address than 1600 Pennsylvania Avenue, and people
could be free, live life as they wanted. It was my destiny. I could feel it.
I had planned on taking a Greyhound bus to San Francisco, but I decided to hitchhike, to keep in step with the others that were spanning the countryside like beautiful gypsies. Those people who picked me up
at first were church going people, who wanted to know why such a handsome, well scrubbed young man was doing hitchhiking, and wasn’t I scared of the ‘riff raff’ that could corrupt me. I smiled and explained I
was headed to college to study, and that my car had broken down. This was my story for about 2000 miles.
I had made it to the Nevada border, having stopped in a few towns to rest and relax, excited that I was almost to San Francisco. I wondered what I would do when I got there. Who would I meet? How would I
live? I tried not to obsess on it, the solid background of my upbringing always in the back of my mind. But I pushed those thought out as I headed into the local diner to have some lunch. As I walked into the greasy
spoon, I couldn’t help but notice a strange quiet emanating from the place. All eyes were upon a tall, dark haired man, in a peasant shirt, torn jeans, and sandals, waiting to be served. He remained stoic, his head held
high. I sat down at a booth and a tall, slender redhead named Naomi came over and handed me a menu.
‘What can I get for ya, sugar’?
‘Coffee, please. With cream?’ She started to walk away and I stopped her.
‘What’s going on?’ She turned around and snorted.
‘Oh, him. Damned hippies. They always want service. I told ’em we don’t serve their kind. Haven’t we had enough trouble with the blacks, now the damned freaks from Frisco?’ I became angered at her attitude, and stood up,
my blood boiling.
‘I’m sorry. Naomi, is it? Was was it you said about the negros and the hippies?’. She froze and turned around, the coffee pot in her hand frozen in mid air. She shot me an icy stare, as several black patrons looked in her
direction with obvious disdain. ‘I’m afraid I didn’t hear you correctly. Perhaps you could repeat it again?’. She stormed out to the kitchen as I picked up my bag and walked out into the afternoon sunshine.
A few seconds later, the young man bounded out of the restaurant, calling at me.
‘Hey there. Wait up.’ I turned and he was standing next to his multihued VW bus, beckoning for me to come over. He introduced himself as Michael.
‘You’re not called Wolf, Lion, or some other name from the forest?’ I joked. He laughed and asked me where I was going. I told him San Francisco, and he kindly offered me a ride.
Michael stood 6’4, with coal black hair framing his etherial looking face. His eyes were the color of the sky, and his trimmed beard made him look like something out of the Old Testament. His open peasant shirt revealed a thick mane of curly dark hair that extended to his arms.
As we headed down the highway, he offered me a cup of herbal tea. As he handed to me, he asked me if I wanted one lump of sugar or two. Sensing a moment of hesitation, he laughed heartily.
‘My child, I’m not going to give you a sugar cube. You’re still pretty green.’ I laughed and accepted the proffered cup. I learned he was just like me, from a prominent family, running away to start a new life, from what he deemed as
‘tyranny, bowing to the pressures of the man’. Michael was headed to San Francisco where he owned a small head shop. He lived alone, and didn’t need much.
We headed into San Francisco, and Michael asked me what I was going to do upon arrival. I told him probably find a hotel, find a job, and go from there. He asked me if I’d like to stay at his place. I was surprised at the offer, but was pleased by it as well. I accepted and we headed towards
his place in the Castro District. It was a beautiful little shop with an apartment above, decorated in modest furniture, with various posters of bands that had played at the Fillmore plastered on his walls.
‘Here’s home. What do you think?’
‘I love it.’ I sat on the couch and took in my new surroundings. I felt freer than I ever had before, as if a weight had been lifted off of my shoulders. I was also wondering what my parents were thinking at this moment, where I was, if I was ok. I thought I should call them, but again, it would have
defeated the purpose of my new life. Perhaps in time.
Michael took me on a tour of the city, but only after I changed my clothes into something more suitable. A nehru jacket, a pair of form fitting hip huggers and sandals, I gazed at this new person with a sense of wonder. I smiled at the reflection and we headed out the door.
We walked through Nob Hill, along the Tenderloin district, stopping at Chinatown to eat a bit of chop suey. When we began our descent down Lombard Street, I just wanted to sprout wings and fly around this vista. It was like heaven on earth. Michael kept looking over at me with a
bemused smile on his hirsute face. As we walked he would occasionally put his arm around my waist, or take my hand. I felt safe with him, as if we’d know each other for a million years. He bought me some beads, painted a flower on my cheek, and introduced me to some of his friends, who embraced me with
flowers, kisses, hugs, and an offer of a joint.
It was late when we returned home, and after another cup of herbal tea, we settled in his living room. He turned on his hi fi and pulled out a 45 record and put it on the turntable. The smooth sounds of ‘Crystal Blue Persuasion’ floated from the speakers.
He left the room and returned with a small jade box. Opening it, he pulled out a joint, lit it, took a hit of of it, and leaned over and ignited the incense on the table. The perfumy smell of patchouli filled the semi darkened room. A lava lamp gently illuminated our space, casting shadows against the walls. He
leaned over to me and handed me the joint.
‘I’ve never had it before.’ He looked into my eyes with those beautiful orbs, and smiled broadly. He took another hit, inhaled, then leaned down and pressed his lips against mine, the smoke entering my throat. I fought it at first, but as his tongue wrapped around mine, I inhaled and let the vapors overtake me.
The first hit felt unusual, almost bland. But with each increasing toke, I felt my body orb into something more, every pore of my body tingling with desires I’d only imagined. His kisses became more passionate, and his hands floated across my body, and while I knew his fingers were touching me, it was as if thousands
of silk scarves were caressing me.
He stood up and removed his clothes, standing before me, his beautifully toned body slender and taut. His penis was long and slender, and stood out like a third leg. He stood me up and slowly undressed me. Pulling me to him, he put his hands into my hair and kissed me deep. I was bent backwards as his lips worked their
way across my quivering frame. He gently gathered me in his arms and carried me into the bedroom. On the soft satin sheets he plunged me into the depths of passions I’d never known. His tongue danced across the naked flesh like hot fire. I cried out in ecstacy, arching my back as he seemed to morph his body into mine.
It was as if we were becoming one entity.
Sliding my body down, he pulled my legs towards his shoulders, and bent down to kiss me once again. ‘Child, let me show you what you’ve been missing. Allow me to take you to heights that no one has ever climbed. I will fulfill you.’
Tommy James kept playing on the hi fi as he entered me slowly, his mushroom head entering my anus. I began to shake, a bit from fear, but he reached down and caressed my face. ‘Is this your first time?’ I nodded, and he kissed me gently, like a whisper.
‘Relax. Close your eyes and let my energy fill you. Allow me into your soul, and I shall fulfill your every need.’ I closed my eyes and did as instructed, allowing the patchouli, the weed, and his energy overtake me. Soon he was entering me all the way, making breathless, passionate love to me, his every move, as he stated, taking
me to heights I’d truly never felt before. He would occasionally stop and take my swollen penis into his mouth, licking the precum off of my head, swirling my balls into his moist lips.
When he was ready to cum, he pressed his entire body onto mine, and I felt his warm fluids enter my ass. He shuddered as he came, and when he finished, he leaned down again and kissed me passionately. He again took my penis in his lips and began to fellate me vigorously. I was soon shooting my seed into his awaiting mouth, and he
drank it greedily, sucking each drop with zest.
Through the night, we exchanged more weed, he massaged my body with sesame seed oil, and made love to me again. It was a ritual that went on into the morning dawn that pressed through the thin curtains of his bedroom windows.
We took a long, hot bath together, smoking more pot, talking about our families, our lives, what we were going to do during the day. We got out and dried off and headed back into the bedroom. I began to get dressed, as did he, and with the sunlight streaming throughout his apartment, we headed out the door into the day, hand in hand,
greeting friends, exchanging smiles with strangers, and occasionally watching the faces of the people I had grown up with glaring at me with disdain, whispering to themselves, shaking their heads. I had become one of the ‘hippies’, and I relished every moment of my new life.
The years passed as my life in San Francisco became a true home to me. I decided to attend Berkeley to study sociology and psychology. Michael paid for my tuition, and within a few years I had my own practice on Telegraph Hill. Michael’s business flourished, growing into a flower shop, and one of the most prestigious in the city.
We became a devoted couple, becoming a part of the new renaissance of San Francisco’s rebirth in the late 70’s. We were on boards in town, the symphonies, and in the early 80’s, the AIDS movement that tragically struck down many of our dearest friends.
We spent 40 years together until Michael’s sudden passing from a massive stroke in 1999. Per his request, he was cremated and I kept his ashes in the same jade box he kept his stash in.
I had reconciled with my parents years after my arrival in San Francisco, and they learned to accept me and my new career. They also learned to love Michael as much as I, and even attended his funeral service.
Now, after the passing of my parents, my lover, I look back on my life with a deep sense of gratitude, mostly to a beautiful long haired hippie who taught me to love myself with honesty, and courage. And every time I wanted Michael near me, i’d lean back on the sofa in our penthouse, light a joint, and turn on ‘Crystal Blue Persuasion’.
And I swear, I could see Michael before me, smiling, dressed in his peasant shirt, sandals, toking along with me.
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